


Good With What I've Got

by Impalallama



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:20:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impalallama/pseuds/Impalallama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple one-shot. A hunt and the healing that follows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good With What I've Got

**Author's Note:**

> This story is fairly old, so please bear with me.

Dean hates poltergeists; despises them with a burning passion. They're right up there with witches on his list of most hated supernatural entities and top of the list of most annoying. Opening and closing doors is one thing; noisy, sure, but basically harmless. Picking up anything and everything they can get their invisible little hands on and throwing it as hard and as far as they can? Well, that's a whole other story now, isn't it?

Houses are another contributing factor in his disdain for the troubled spirits. Going in, you don't know what to look out for; the buggers are tricky, coming at you when you least expect them to and you never know what they'll throw at you next. Usually it was plates and silverware –Dean can think of a handful of times where he's had to dodge a flying knife or fork- but things like books and soccer balls and even stuffed toys were fair game to the cunning spirits. Oh, and let's not forget the furniture, shall we? He and Sam have been trapped under shelves and bookcases on more than one occasion and those hunts almost always ended in a trip to the hospital for a broken or cracked rib or two.

Graveyards, however, didn't have much to offer in terms of projectile weapons and so, in reaction to that, the ghosts have to get creative.

So it really shouldn't have come as a surprise when the spirit, pissed as hell about them wanting to torch its bones, decides to pick up Sam like the Sasquatch weighs nothing, and toss him through the air and into a nearby headstone. 

Dean drops the shovel when he hears Sam cry out as his back makes contact with the granite and there's not doubt in the older Winchesters mind that his little brother is going to be stooped over like a ninety-year-old for the next couple of days. Forgetting about his job to burn the bones, Dean calls out Sam's name, just to make sure he's okay.

There's a moment where all he can hear is the wind and Dean's heart starts to race at the thought that Sam had been knocked out, but there comes a groan, followed by a rustling of clothing, and Dean sighs in relief when his brother calls back.

“Ya'll right, little brother?”

Sam insists that he's fine, tells Dean to 'just hurry the hell up', and ten seconds later the spirits bones are lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July. The spirit gives one final cry of rage before it explodes into flame and dissolves into ashes and once again the only sound is that of the wind and leafs rustling in the trees.

Finished, Dean wipes the dirt off his hands then grabs the duffel, the shovels, and heads over to Sam who's already getting back on unsteady feet. 

“Getting a bit rust there, aren't we Sammy?” Dean says with a grin, offering him his free hand.

“Bite me.” Sam shoots back with a wince, but lets Dean help him the rest of the way up.

“Don't swing that way, dude.” Dean says and shoves one of the shovels into his brothers hands who takes it with a roll of his eyes. Then, the two of them are walking -well, Sam's hobbling- back to the Impala.

Both of them are ready to collapse when they finally return to the cheap, dirty motel they had rented but before Dean does any sleeping, he's taking a shower to rid himself of the dirt he's accumulated from digging up the spirits grave. After fifteen minutes of basking in the soothingly hot water, he steps out of the bathroom, clad in a clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt, takes one look at his brother, and shakes his head.

Sam's laying on his bed, flat on his stomach, with his head buried in the pillow. Dean can hear muffled curses coming from him and he stifles a laugh. Sam's always been a pouter but Dean hasn't seen him do something like this since they were kids and right now, Dean isn't seeing a twenty-two-year-old man about to enter law school, but a young twelve-year-old boy with big doe eyes and gangly limbs who's just about had the worst day ever. 

The elder Winchesters eyes soften as he makes his way over to Sam. What he wouldn't give to be able to go back to those times, back to when it was him, John, and Sam, together, a family. A pretty messed up family that hunted were-wolves and ghosts and knew how to fire every kind of weapon made by man, but it was a family nonetheless. Now their dad is gone, missing, and it's just him and Sam protecting people, hunting things, working the 'family business'. It's just them living on the road, barely making ends meet and risking their lives for strangers time and time again. 

Looking back on today, when Sam had gotten tossed by the poltergeist, Dean knows that one day they'll come out of a hunt with more than just bruises and scratches and it'll be something that neither of them can fix. For now, though, he's happy where he is and glad that his little brother has only managed bruise his back.

His pride too, but Dean can bug him about that later.

Dean heads to the small kitchen in the room and grabs an ice pack from the fridge. Wrapping it in a washcloth, he heads back over to Sam's bed and sits carefully on the edge so as not to disturb his brother. He snorts when he hears the choice words that are still being uttered and is instantly reminded of their dad; that man could swear worse than a sailor once you got him started and there was no stopping him until he was either too tired or had passed out from pain or exhaustion. 

Sam startles a bit when Dean moves to lift up the edge of his shirt to assess the damage and Dean utters a quick apology. Lifting the shirt more, Dean can see the beginning of the bruise and what he sees has him whistling in amazement. 

“How bad is it?” Sam asks, face still pressed into the pillow. Dean doesn't reply, just presses the ice pack to the wound. Sam hisses and arches his back slightly at the sudden cold; but it helps, and he's relaxing within moments, “Could have warned a guy...” he says with mock hurt.

Dean rolls his eyes and continues to press on the ice pack.

“So how bad is it?” Sam asks again, a bit more forceful this time.

“Not that bad.” Dean lies. Sam, who's probably too tired to notice his brother blatant lie, mumbles a 'Thank God' and settles back on the bed. Within minutes sleep claims him. 

Dean sits, still holding the ice, and listens to his brothers quiet breathing. When he thinks that Sam is truly asleep, he lifts up the ice-pack just a bit, takes another glance at the ugly bruise stretching across Sam's lower back, and winces. Man, was he ever going to be in for a rude awakening tomorrow morning... but it's better he find out tomorrow than risk staying up all night fussing over it. 

Dean would just have to deal with Sam's freak-out in the morning when he finds out that his back looks like a friggin' rainbow decided to blow chunks all over it.


End file.
